


Kings May Love Treason

by brevitas



Series: King Among Kings [2]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Medieval AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-22
Updated: 2013-05-22
Packaged: 2017-12-12 14:59:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/812868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brevitas/pseuds/brevitas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prince Enjolras arrives and Grantaire is disappointed in his supposedly meek nature. Neither understand the depth of the other and the kingdom is all a charades game as the men skirt one another.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kings May Love Treason

Despite Grantaire's original foolhardy belief that nine days would be plenty of time he still manages to be surprised when King Abelard announces at dinner, "Prince Enjolras is predicted to arrive by noon tomorrow." He turns to Grantaire and says pointedly, "I expect you to be up and bathed by that time."

Grantaire chokes on his chicken, and his father gives him an unimpressed look over the length of hardwood between them. The two male heirs sit on opposite ends on the dining room table and on nights like this the distance reminds Grantaire of how different they truly are.

Estee, seated to his right, giggles into her grape juice. Both men ignore her.

"I'll be there, father," he assures him, and does not need to look over his shoulder to predict Bahorel's expression. No doubt he's barely smothering a grin; his friend and sister had warned him of his tendency to lose track of time yet here he is, already half-drunk, with no clean clothes to wear tomorrow and no idea of how he was going to manage that problem _and_ scrub himself clean.

Of course he says nothing about that to his father, who approves of his silence on the matter. He knows his son well enough to know that he is ill-prepared, and does not offer to help him. It is only in the morning when he might stoop to aiding Grantaire, if his son is so behind schedule that he risks insulting Prince Enjolras. Their kingdom needs this alliance, and he will not tolerate his sole heir ruining it for the both of them.

He releases him after dinner and Grantaire hurries from the hall, collecting Bahorel on his way out. "Go down to the kitchen and tell them to heat some water," he says decisively, "And then find Lady Cosette and tell her I need that outfit I commissioned for my father's midsummer ball to be completed by the morning."

Bahorel lifts an eyebrow but nods and says, "Certainly, my lord." He disappears with a shit-eating grin that tempts Grantaire to throw something bodily after him.

The staff are familiar with Grantaire and the cooks especially have a soft spot for him; within a few hours of his request there is a full basin of steaming water in his room. He had long-ago dismissed all his attendants and, much to their displeasure, now washes himself. This habit had been borne of his need to hide the strange bruises and cuts he would sometimes incur while helping farmers and other workers down in the villages from the pages who might be serving his father, and he'd quickly found that he preferred it that way.

He carefully shaves himself, mastering this too in necessity, and is midway through the dark stubble shadowing his jaw when there is a knock at his door. "Who is it?" He calls distractedly.

The attendant at his door curtly replies, "Chief Guard Bahorel, my lord."

"Wave him in," he yells, and he hears the door open and shut. He sees Bahorel in the mirror, grins when he sees what his friend holds in his hands.

"She had some choice words she asked me to pass onto you," he says with a chuckle, "But Lady Cosette managed your request." He lays the finely-made tunic and pants onto a nearby chair and looks over his shoulder at the door, a slight frown troubling his mouth.

"What is it, Bahorel?" Grantaire glances up from shaving, wiping cream on a rag draped over the side of his tub. "Is there someone else out there?"

"Well..." Bahorel's frown deepens. "Lady Cosette asked if you might take on an attendant as a personal favor to her."

Grantaire waves a hand and returns to his razor, already bored of the topic at hand. "Lady Cosette knows as well as all the employees in this castle that I do not take attendants," he answers smartly, "And I do not want any."

Bahorel folds his arms over his chest, his armor clinking. "Unfortunately, my lord," he answers sarcastically, "It was not a request I could turn down so long as you wanted your clothes. I weighed the necessity of that outfit against your comfort and accepted her offer."

"Bahorel!" He shouts, scrambling to sit up in the tub, but Bahorel's voice is much louder and his protests are all but drowned out when the guard bellows, "Let him in!"

The door opens immediately and emits what Grantaire first mistakes as a woman, thick golden hair drawn over her slim shoulder. He sees only upon a closer scrutiny that it's a man, definitely effeminate, with flowers of different colors arranged in his braid. He's absolutely beautiful, and Grantaire expects him to blush when he sees that His Royal Highness is still completely nude and sitting in a half-empty brass tub.

Instead the young man giggles, and covers his mouth with a pale hand. He surveys Grantaire behind his fingers with delightedly green eyes, and at Grantaire's look says with another laugh, "I did not expect the rumors to be true, my lord."

Grantaire looks down at himself and Bahorel starts laughing, his chainmail clinking as he slaps Grantaire on the bare shoulder. "He can definitely stay," he says cheerily, and turns to the attendant. "Help him into his nightclothes, for he is to immediately go to bed." Anything Grantaire says in protest is washed out. "Wake him at eight tomorrow morning and assist him to breakfast, then into these clothes. He is allotted one glass of alcohol, and that is it."

Grantaire sighs gustily and droops further into the water, ignoring how the flowered blonde laughs again. He can respect the boy's spirit, at least, even if he doesn't especially approve of having another agent among his ranks.

Before Bahorel leaves he leans down and bends so close that his dark hair mingles with Grantaire's. He whispers lowly, "His name is Jehan, and he is for you only. He works for none; your secrets are safe with him, I swear to it."

He straightens and nods to them both before departing, leaving Grantaire wallowing in his tub and looking at this so-called trust-worthy Jehan, who looks boldly back. "Hand me my towel," he says, and Jehan retrieves it with a grin.

"Here," he says, dropping the formal 'my lord' with no more warning than that. "Bahorel wants me to help you put your clothes on and then you're off to bed." He turns around and says with dangerously happy eyes, " _Without_ alcohol."

Grantaire is so startled he has nothing to say at all, and Jehan practically skips as he goes to the prince's armoire to retrieve his nightclothes.

+++++

It is only due to Jehan's aid that Grantaire is ready at all, especially considering that he's on time and standing with his hands politely clasped behind his back at the front door ten minutes til noon. He smothers a yawn into his shoulder and his father cuts him a sidelong glance that would injure lesser men upon eye contact (for Grantaire it barely stirs a twitch of an eyebrow).

It's five past noon when they hear the approaching hoofbeats, and King Abelard clears his throat. He tells his son, "Stand up straight," and begrudgingly Grantaire does as he's told. Estee waits eagerly at his side, rocking back and forth on her heels like an overexcited pup.

A line of hardy carriages ease to a stop on the cobblestone path in front of the castle, three in total. None of the horses are ornamental; they're tough beasts, and their hooves spark when they impatiently stomp their feet.

The carriage in the middle opens its door and a man steps out; Grantaire peers curiously at him as he effortlessly jumps down but knows by his method of dress that he is not the prince. He must be his personal attendant, Grantaire decides. He has a crown of hair so curly it looks surreal, and a dark lock falls chaotically across the slope of his forehead.

Another man joins him on the ground, this one pushing dark hair out of his face with an impatient hand. He squints at Grantaire, frowns, and steps to the side to join the first. A second attendant then.

A redheaded man steps out from the first carriage and announces in a ringing voice, "His Royal Highness Enjolras!"

The staff had not been lying when they said that Enjolras was the prettiest man that had ever been seen. When he slides to the stone he moves effortlessly, like water, with the grace of a deer unknown to humans. The pale ivory outfit he wears complements his figure wonderfully and the fabric settles around him when he stills, his hands linked at his stomach.

He bows and Grantaire sees that his hair is piled on top of his head in some sort of bun, most of it tucked beneath his high collar. He addresses the ground when he says dully, "Prince Grantaire."

Grantaire frowns (this is not the spitfire he'd been imagining) and mimics the bow. "Prince Enjolras," he replies.

They both rise and Abelard ushers them inside, telling the men he'd brought with him to unload the carriages and see to the horses. After a dinner that is everything but exciting, Abelard rises with a broad grin. "I'll let you boys get better acquainted with one another," he says, gesturing for his guard to follow as he heads for the door. "See you at breakfast, son."

Grantaire says through his teeth, "Certainly, father," because he's tired of these charades already. He pokes at his cooling potatoes and glances at Enjolras, who sits with his hands in his lap and stares down at food practically untouched.

When he stands Enjolras finally looks up at him and his eyes are so blue that Grantaire is momentarily drawn to a stop. He stares then turns away, grabbing his half-empty mug of wine with an angry swipe of his hand. "I'm going to bed," he says irritably. "I'll find your men and send them in to you."

They've exchanged not two words since their introduction, and Enjolras says nothing in response as Grantaire leaves. Bahorel waits for him at the door; he detaches from the wall and falls into step at his side, waiting until they are out of earshot to speak.

"He seems... nice," he says, struggling to be positive, and Grantaire snorts into his goblet.

"Nice?" He echoes, dismayed. "He seems stupid. He contributed nothing to the dinner conversation, and whenever I tried to catch his eye he looked away." He drains his cup and abandons it in the hall without a thought. "The boy is pretty, certainly, but even duller than those ugly women father tried to woo me with."

Bahorel honestly has nothing to say to that, for with all that either of them have seen it's true. He leaves the prince in his chambers and in Jehan's capable hands and takes his post in the hall, resting his palms on his scabbard.

Meanwhile the guard assigned to Enjolras' door lies crumpled in the stairway nearby, his limbs splayed in such a fashion that it is clear he was taken by surprise. The single maid that passes naively by half an hour later doesn't realize that what she mistakes as talking is actually the noise of the wind billowing in through an open window and thus doesn't think to report the sounds.

+++++

Enjolras returns an hour before dawn, Courfeyrac and Combeferre diligently at his heels. He cracks his knuckles as he tips his head back to admire the length of fabric that spirals down from his window; it is all the blankets he could manage to find in his room, growing desperate enough that he donated some of his own shirts to its construction. He scales it with little effort and pulls his attendants in behind him, coiling the rope and quietly shutting the window.

The three sit down to untie it, knowing they have to return each item to its respective niche before they're roused for breakfast. Enjolras' cheeks are flushed from the chill of the night and his teeth flash in the veritable darkness of his room as he settles, knees crossed.

"That was enlightening," he says, working his elegant fingers through a knot. "We now know how the peasants feel about King Abelard."

Courfeyrac nods, bent over a flowered sheet. "Yeah, that they hate him," he puts in.

Combeferre hums. "They seem rather fond of the prince, however."

Enjolras says nothing, as he too was surprised by this. When he'd pried further to see if perhaps they were only demonstrating allegiance in front of a stranger he discovered that they truly liked the young prince, and that each time they spoke of him they shared glances that reminded him of secrets mutually kept.

"Something is definitely off about him," he tells his friends, shaking a thick comforter free and smoothing his hands over the crinkles. "I'll have to keep an eye on him."

After a few minutes of silence Courfeyrac glances at the door and says, "I think that guard should be coming around soon," to which Combeferre chuckles.

"It was rather exciting getting new guards," he tells his prince with a small smile. "The fellows at home caught on rather quickly to not trust us with their backs."

"He'll probably report it to his commander," Enjolras says, and flashes a grin, "But he'll be too embarrassed to take it further. When we innocently say that we heard nothing and were safe through the night it'll be assumed he wandered off for a spell, or took a nap."

Courfeyrac laughs again, loosening a knot with skilled hands. "This may not be as bad as we thought," he says. "Maybe we'll have fun here."

Enjolras chuckles. "If every night's as easy as this one, I'll have to agree."

The three men laugh and spend the night unraveling the knots and refolding the blankets, but they do not mind the labors. The guard stirs a little before breakfast and is still rubbing at the swollen knot on his head when he knocks and calls in, "Breakfast, sirs, if you'd like some."

Enjolras stretches in the bed his attendants share with him (a habit his staff at home despised, and took to viciously gossiping about in the corridors) and carefully rises so as not to wake them.

He opens his door a crack and adopts a demure expression, saying tamely, "I'll be right out, sir," before disappearing inside. The guard decides not to mention the incident to his superior upon seeing Enjolras safe and sound, and waits patiently for the foreign prince to finish getting dressed instead.

**Author's Note:**

> originally requested by zimriya (and thank the gods for that because I really wanted to write on this one)
> 
> so as one can tell I had some fun with this installment, and I hope everybody enjoys it enough to request some more because I really enjoy playing around in the medieval sandbox!
> 
> title is from this quote: "This principle is old, but true as fate, Kings may love treason, but the traitor hate." as said by Thomas Dekker
> 
> tumblr is idfaciendumest, follow me or ask me things or request things or whatever, I love everybody and kiss kiss!


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